This is the place for mostly column rants and a few other things I find interesting. People are free to add comments here. If you add a comment, you must either be registered or leave an email address. Anonymous comments will be deleted.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Hate! or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 48

Mykel's

Post
MRR Column no 48

or

Hate

The
MOST important type of speech to protect is hate speech, because it
often contains desperate truths that would lose their urgency if
expressed calmly. --Jim
Goad

It's
my last night in Grenomia... second smallest country in Africa... and
one of the many where English is the first language. The natives know
half a dozen others. The local tribal language sounds more Slovic
than African. I'll do my best to transcribe it. It's been 30 days of
wild times with half a dozen citizens who may be the only punk
rockers in the country. I have a hangover the size of Lithuania, and
a smile on my face the size of Wyoming. Great times!

My
farewell party is in a squat on the outskirts of Juancasas.. the
country's capital. The locals have squatted the entire house, and
when they drive me here they tell me they had a special
farewell gift for me.

I'm
game.

The
car pulls over in front of a dilapidated house that wouldn't look out
of place in a Psycho remake...
Africa version... left over from colonial times and just allowed to
rot. It's a tall stone structure with a balcony over the door. The
windows are either boarded up or naked and glassless. There is a
recently-built front door of sorts... a piece of plywood on hinges.

The
lockless front door creaks open, but instead of the theme to The
Munsters, Black Flag's Six Pack
blasts out from a boombox with fresh batteries. It's the Grenomian
Punk House! Oh yeah!

Inside
is a self-remodeled house... almost completely plywood. Punk posters
on plywood walls... The lower floors have makeshift plywood ceilings
while the upper floors are left open to the sky. Clothes hang on wood
racks... wood wood wood.

Stratos... nothing like a black guy with a Mohawk!

The
house is lit with candles. Yep, wood wood wood illuminated with
burning tapers... an open invitation to a future skin graft. Fearless
me proceeds inward... up a winding staircase... to a closed door that
Stratos... my mohawked host... punk and punster supreme... opens with
a flourish. >

Oh
yeah! I salivate and stick my middle finger in my mouth. Then
instead of aiming for the i,
I am for the DOT on the i.
BINGO!

I
grab the reigns and buck for the bunghole. Oh yeah! Friction up the
wazoo. I watch her ass cheeks wave in punkrock rhythm to the music of
my thrusts.

I
draw ever closer to that magical moment. All I can do is concentrate
on the tightness around my little linguine. Yes! Yes!

I
hear a female voice. It is NOT the voice of the girl I'm shtupping.

“OK,
MYKEL...” it says, “I THINK WE'VE HAD ENOUGH!”

“Who
the fuck are you?” I ask.

“YOU
KNOW ME, MYKEL,” she says. “I'VE BEEN ABUSED BY YOU FOR DECADES.
I'M A LITERARY DEVICE.”

“What
the fuck are you doing here?” I ask. “Go away!”

If
there were a transcription for the sound eyes make when they roll
heavenward, I'd insert it here.

“YOU
KNOW, MYKEL. (eye-rolling sound) I'M
JUST DOING MY JOB... I'M HERE TO CALL YOU OUT... WHERE SHOULD I
START?”

“I
donno,” I say, “at the beginning?”

“FINE,”
she says, “LET'S START WITH FAKE
NEWS. GRENOMIA? THERE'S
NO COUNTRY IN AFRICA-- OR IN THE WORLD-- CALLED GRENOMIA. YOU JUST
MADE THAT UP.”

“Of course I did,” I answer. “I'm a
writer. That's a writer's job... to make stuff up. It's what I'm
supposed to do. Is
Moby Dick FAKE NEWS
because there was no real
Captain Ahab?”

“MOBY
DICK WAS A NOVEL,” she says. “YOU'RE NOT WRITING A NOVEL. AND
BESIDES, THAT'S ONLY THE FIRST OFFENSE.”

“Okay,”
I answer. “What's next?”

“YOU
PUT THE WHOLE THING IN AFRICA. YOU'RE APPROPRIATING A FOREIGN
CULTURE. YOU'RE INSERTING YOURSELF SOMEWHERE TO CREATE THE IMPRESSION
OF THE EXOTIC... THE MYSTERIOUS... YOU'RE MAKING AFRICANS AS SOME
SORT OF FREAKS... COMPLETE ALIENS.”

You're
wrong! I'm making the Africans punk-cool-sophisticated. That great
punster is African. The squat... could have been Ave C in the 80s...
is African.

OK,
THEN WHAT ABOUT THE HET-ITUDE? THAT WOMAN ON THE FLOOR... IT HAD TO
BE A WOMAN? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE, MYKEL? YOUR HETERO
MANLINESS?

What
the fuck? Are you accusing me of homophobia? Me??? I'm not gay, but
MOST of the guys I've fucked are gay. That's as public as my hair
transplant.

SEE?
YOU'RE EQUATING GAY WITH HAIR TRANSPLANT... AS IF THEY BOTH WERE
FAILED SOLUTIONS TO SOME PROBLEM OR OTHER.

(Insert
the sound of Mykel's eye-rolling here.)

DON'T
GIVE ME THAT! AND WHAT ABOUT THAT POOR WOMAN?... ON ALL FOURS... IN A
SLUM... FOR YOUR PLEASURE. GIVEN LIKE A BIRTHDAY BLOW-UP DOLL FOR YOU
TO JERK OFF IN.

It's
a service... a job... have you ever given anyone a haircut for his
birthday... or paid for someone's cab ride? In a post-work
society there will be no prostitutes. No barbers or cab drivers
either. Until we get there people work... they have jobs... You think
being a whore is somehow more demeaning than being a rich woman's
schwarze? I know dozens of people who love whores for what they do.
(I'm one of them.) I've yet to meet one who respects the toilet
cleaner.

MYKEL!
MYKEL! MYKEL! (Literary Device shakes her head.) YOU'RE JUST SO FULL
OF HATE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL JUST YELL “FUCK YOU!” AT EVERYONE AND
LEAVE IT ALONE.

You're
a just literary device... you wouldn't know hate if it came up and
bit you on the ass.

BINGO!
I WOULD KNOW HATE IF IT
BIT ME ON THE ASS. WHAT BETTER WAY TO TELL?

Double
bingo! I say. THAT's what hate's all about. A word isn't hate... a
cliché... a joke... that isn't hate. Hate is HATE. If I say colored
girl... that is not hate. It's just a pair of words with
historical meaning. I'll tell you about hate.

I
hate mosquitoes. I'd like to kill every one of 'em. I'd like them
out... gone... deader than American free speech. That's hate. I hate
public displays of possession. Johnny's got Mary (or Jim) pressed up
against a lamppost. Their arms are around each other... he grinds his
crotch into hers... she sticks her tongue down his throat... one eye
on the passers-by... telling 'em Hey look... I'm getting laid. I
own this girl... or guy. I hate that! I'd like to strangle them
both... bury them as far apart from one another as geography allows.

Want
me to tell you what else I hate?

I
HAVE THE FEELING YOU WILL ANYWAY.

I
hate self-righteous bike riders who think that-- because they don't
use gas-- they have the right to go the wrong way on a one-way
street, travel at night without a light, and ride on the sidewalk. I
hate jock-itch that comes every summer no matter how much I spray
beforehand. I hate banks that tell me I need 25-letter passwords and
besides they'll block my credit card if I go to Africa... and then
say it's for my own protection.

I
hate excessive nosehair that-- besides being aesthetically hideous--
tickles when I smile. I hate people who cringe in disgust when I
squeeze those nosehairs between my thumb and middle finger and
one-by-one yank them out.

ANYTHING
ELSE?

Yes.
I hate a literary device that doesn't know its place. Literary
devices are tricks to illustrate a point... to foreshadow... provide
background or diversion. Literary devices aren't supposed to be
uppity, contradict the writer, talk back. Get it?

FUCK YOU!

ENDNOTES:

>
[You can contact me on facebook
or by email at god@mykelboard.com
Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music
or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137,
New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified
when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS
Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->What's
Wayne Newton's First Name? Dept: Chuck Shepherd has collected the
names of murderers... or accused murderers-- in the US from 1970 to
2008. Not all of them, though... just the ones whose middle name is
WAYNE. You can see the list here.
But be prepared... I count six pages of names... from Michael Wayne
Adams to Robert Wayne Wyant.

I'm
waiting for the Social Justice Warriors to accuse me of Waynophobia.
It's not true... there are some good ones out there somewhere. It's
just that I can't find any.

-->Jewish
Nazis Dept: The totalitarians of the German Antifa Fa squad have
shut down a bookstore in Berlin. The reason? The bookstore, located
in an immigrant neighborhood, had organized a forum about a thinker
than some say is “fascist.” The forum wasn't a promotion, it was
a discussion... but discussion is furthest from the “minds” of
Antifa-Fas. They called the owner a Nazi and put so much pressure on
the store, it had to close. The owners, by the way, were Jews,
grandchildren of holocaust survivors.

In
their farewell
letter
they wrote:when
you want a free society you have to except the whole package: the
madmen and the pedophiles and the sociopath and the radicals and the
dandy and the nerds and the black and the whites and the whiter and
the rich jews and the poor christians and also- yourself, this is
actually always the right place to start, and it is always best to
start now, because tomorrow we might lose these rights and freedoms.

-->
Keeping
the Pressure on Dept:
I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing
Bring
Back Mykel
effort directed at Maximum
Rock'n'Roll
for censoring me.

As
their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames
her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the
business... and couldn't simply invite me back.

Send
your comments to
mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or
post on their facebook
page)
with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.